She looks good. Board in hands, tethered to her wrist. She stands and watches, waiting for that wave just like the boys who think they’re men 30 feet down the beach from us. She takes off at full speed, drops her board about 6 feet away from the surf, jumps on it and glides for a whole 6 inches or so. She promptly falls to the side, her dread locked hair sticking to her face, and looks back looking for someone to share her excitement. Which I’m glad to do.
She’s so legit.
Over and over again. Literally hours. Unphased at all by the fact that those boys in board shorts are doing flips while the nose of her board gets stuck in wet sand.
Mama, I have sand in my crotch.
I can see that.
Pulling her suit a tad to the side, I can see that we don’t just have sand in her crotch, we have a small bucket full of sand, essentially stuck there due to the fact a fatal design flaw to leave the crotch lining open in the front. “I know, why don’t we just leave this part open so that there’s actually a built-in sand pocket,” said some insane Target clothing designer somewhere who clearly does not have any young daughters.
While I’m doing my best to turn things inside out and clear out every grain of distraction so that she can get back to her wild world of surfing, I hear some dry commentary from the dry girl in the dry beach chair next to me.
I am never going to do that when I am a mom.
To which I answer with a smile, “Yeah, you will. Just like I am doing now and just like I did for you. That’s what moms do.”
And off she goes, with about 23.4% of the sand removed, unwilling to give up her sport due to some harsh conditions, still looking back for my jaw-drops and thumbs up when she catches the big wave. Which I give every time. That’s what moms do.
